This Sunday’s church was recommended by one of my blog readers in Florida. She wanted to see how her church represented itself on the opposite coast.

I immediately said YES! (It’s my policy for a reason!)

So we hightailed it down there to experience the Disciples of Christ firsthand.

My overall impression was that this was a far more inclusive church than the UU. Zero politics. No social agendas. Just lots of GOD talk. I mean LOTS. So much that I lost my way a little bit, in spite of the fact that it was one of the most beautiful churches I’ve ever entered. Architecturally speaking it was utterly stunning.Photo
The music, sadly, left much to be appreciated. Joel (a blues drummer/soul brother trapped inside a white man’s body) and I kept making eye contact every time the pianist started. It was just so… WHITE. I mean, REALLY white. Like David Hasselhof white. No soul in this church at all.

But they tried hard, I’ll give them that. There was nothing even remotely offensive about the service. It was just…. Friendly, Christian, if a bit overly homogonized and saran-wrapped. Basically it was the Lunchables version of spirituality. We found the service itself fairly complicated too. By the time we could find the hymn or the song or the scripture we were meant to be following, it was already over. Lots of ceremony. Not particularly intuitive for first timers.

At one point, the reverend (preacher? minister? I’m not sure I’m getting the titles right…) asked for a moment of silence so we could all bow our heads and pray for the various members of the church who had raised their hands and submitted their worry or joy to the congregation. I huddled my children close to my side and thought, FINALLY! Here is my moment! Let me just clear the clutter from my brain and…

MMmmm. Damn. What is that SMELL? Oh no. It’s that fine-looking bald man sitting next to me. He smells fierce this morning, like he took a bath in pheromones. And his knee just brushed my leg. Now he’s looking at me with that face he makes when… Holy hell!

If you’re trying to work on your spirituality and find your inner MOMENT, you know what’s a REALLY bad idea? Meeting your boyfriend for church on a Sunday when you haven’t had a moment alone together in almost a WEEK and you have the libido of a 14-year-old boy.

That service felt LONG.


Every time he reached down for a hymnal or the Bible, the bastard paraded his beautiful bald head right in front of me! So all I could think about was LICKING HIM. And then our hands would somehow find one another on the church pew (where the kids couldn’t see) and…


I had a full on girly-boner the entire morning.


I’m not sure I’m cut out for this religion business.

My kids, on the other hand, were CHAMPIONS. In spite of the fact that neither of them ate a single bite of the waffle breakfast I laid out for them before we left, they were angels.  Squirmy, snuggly little angels. I’m sure it helped that I promised them Slappycakes if they were good. And they were. We said goodbye to the baldman and hightailed it to breakfast then filled the day with shopping, visiting my sister and general good time cavortification.

It wasn’t until right before bedtime when church came up again.

“Hey mom? Since we go to church now, does that me we don’t get birthdays anymore?”

This is what happens when the only religion your children are exposed to comes from the Jehovah’s Witnesses who live next door.

“Hahahaha! NO,” I replied. “I promise that no matter how many churches we go to, we’ll never choose one where you don’t get birthdays.”

“What about Christmas? And Halloween?” Genoa was seriously worried.

“Those are all yours. I cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”

Joel (who spent 35 years as a Jehovah’s Witness) would never forgive me otherwise. Neither would my lesbian sister.

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